


No bridge too far

by queefqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, Twin Towers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queefqueen/pseuds/queefqueen
Summary: An AU where Jon Snow is recalled by Robb from the Wall before he takes his vows. When negotiating the passage across the Twin Towers' bridge Lady Stark manages to haggle down Lord Walder's demands and arranges a marriage for the bastard instead.Inspired by a fic by Rudbeckia_bicolor and by correspondence with AzraelGFG





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rudbeckia_bicolor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rudbeckia_bicolor/gifts), [AzraelGFG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzraelGFG/gifts).



Outside Twin Towers, army camp  
Lady Catelyn collapsed on the foldable seat in Robb’ tent. She croaked:  
“Wine. Flagon.”  
The Lord of Winterfell was too surprised to comment on his mother’s new drinking habits but simply picked up the vessel and brought it to her.  
After chugging at the contents – this sight making Robb’s eyebrows rise - she gasped:  
“What a .... a .... a .... an OBNOXIOUS MAN!”  
Clearly her courtesies were close to breaking.  
After another generous swig she continued:  
“The ... DESPICABLE CAD ... in return for passage .... tried to marry half of the rats in Twin Towers to the Starks, Tullys, and any other House he could think off.”  
“And?” – Robb asked with some trepidation. He also had heard the tales about the looks of Lord Frey’s descendents.  
“I managed to pare it down to one marriage and one betrothal. As well as fostering a dozen of the cockroaches with various Houses and half a dozen squires and handmaidens. Poor Arya ... “  
“WHAT?”  
The woman sighed:  
“I had to betroth her. But no wedding until a year and one day from flowering.”  
As Robb opened his mouth she raised her hand and gave him the “you shall not speak until your mother is finished” look.  
This was followed by an indiscernible expression as she moved on to the next item:  
“You will have your stupid wish fulfilled. I obliged us to legitimise the bastard at the first opportunity. He is getting betrothed, wedded and bedded tomorrow”.  
Lady Catelyn took another swig to hide her smug look from her son. She did not wish to reveal that upon Walder’s outrage at getting a bastard Stark instead of Robb she agreed to a certain “clause”. Catelyn smirked inwardly. The line-up of eligible maidens – from which the bastard HAD to choose from - was to be limited to the six LEAST marriageable female Freys.

Later rumours circulated across the camp that Jon Snow had tried to high tail it back to the Wall. Opinion over whether it was over the impending nuptials or the bath and haircut to precede the event were divided. The Lady Stark was supposedly heard screeching “You will not look like Rickon’s wolf!”. But who believes rumours, eh?

Next day Inside Twin Towers  
She stood alongside five of her relations. Although rarely rolled out as one of potential brides she had taken part in similar events times enough to be familiar with the motions. Yesterday the news that one of Lord Walder’s distaff descendants was to marry the Stark bastard – hopefully to be legitimised in the near future – had spread through the female quarters like wildfyre. But the hopes of most of the girls of a chance to get out of the rat nest were quickly dashed. Grandfather had rejected the likes of Rosilin, for instance, as “too pretty”. Another girl had heard – “no, you’ve got all your teeth”. What was he thinking? No man would want any of those trotted out as choices! And half of them were Rivers to boot! Well, they were being offered to a bastard, so she supposed it was per course. She hoped that the ordeal of the “meat market” will be quick and the man will make a quick choice without making any disparaging remarks about her. Or at least not loud enough as to reach her ears, if the Maiden was merciful.

When the entry of Stark party in the Hall was announced she struck a demure pose – same as her relations – and looked from under her eyelashes at the groom. Not bad looking. White, with dark hair. A face she deemed handsomer than the male standard prevalent in the Twin Towers. Sullen. Very sullen. But no wonder, forced to pick a wife from amongst them. Not that he would choose her – even making part of such a sorry display of dregs of Frey femininity she rated her chances as second bottom - anybody was more attractive than Waldemara. But a girl could still ogle some male flesh, couldn’t she? The word flesh made her feel hungry and her stomach growled audibly – resonating across the Hall in the silence after Lord Walder had finished extolling the virtues, skill and arts which the Frey maidens on display supposedly possessed in spades.

Upon entering the Main Hall Jon’s vision immediately fell upon the hopefuls. His grim mask did not change but inside he was ready to see red and lash out in murder. The reason for Lady Stark’s little smile she gave him on the ride to the Frey stronghold was painfully apparently. His expectations had been low but what met his eyes was Drowned God level. He ignored the borderline vulgar praises lavished by Lord Walder upon the girls and prayed to the Nameless Old Gods for mercy. And to send Holy Wrath upon Lady Stark. Jon heard the stomach of one of the girls rumble and turned his eyes to her. She blushed. He barely suppressed a shrug – why did girls get upset about rumbling stomachs? Sansa’s reaction to a little tummy growl was such red faced embarrassment as if she had hitched up her skirts and shat in the middle of Main Hall. Pooped, not shat – he reminded himself, this is Sansa we are talking about.

One is almost as good as another, Jon decided, this girl at least not looking like a stick-insect ready to keel over, with a pleasantly smooth, pear shaped face, and made a beeline to the flushed stomach rumbler. He was beyond caring for the protocol at such proceedings. He had made his choice. After introducing himself he extended his arm:  
“Walk with me, Lady ... ?”  
“Walda, milord, Walda”.  
Jon almost snorted at the unimaginative name.  
While she curtsied in greeting he heroically fought to keep his eyes on her face.  
“Could you show me your godswood, your ... whatever? Bridge?”  
“If it pleases you, milord”.  
As they exited the Hall a thought struck him:  
“Or maybe the kitchens, as the lady seems to be in need of sustenance?”  
The look Walda gave him in response simply embarrassed him. It was his turn to blush at her pure and unadulterated adoration.

Their wedding night was a disaster. First during the feast they were regaled with jokes on their appearance together, with “the mosquito putting its sting in the bumblebee” being one of the gentler ones. The chief instigator of those japes was Lord Walder himself, naturally. He barely restrained himself not to beat up the revellers and murder some of his new Frey relations. And a few Northerners too. Then during the bedding ceremony that idiot Greatjon decided it would be a great idea to have six of the strongest men heave Walda into the air and drop her down onto the bed from as high as possible. This action made the bed come apart – causing great merriment to everybody but the newly weds. Walda was fortunately not hurt. They did not consummate their marriage that night as – lying in the ruins of their bed - he had to console his sweet sugar dumpling who cried herself to sleep in shame and embarrassment. Comforting her, rubbing her back, stroking her wet cheeks Jon nonetheless got some notion of her delicious curves. Walda had curves everywhere ...

 

Twin Tower's southern/western gatehouse

Now, riding out of the Twins a sennight later to catch up with the slower moving army Jon Snow was a happily married man, half-way to being deeply in love with his rotund wife. He carried Walda’s favour on his sword arm, just like the knights in Sansa’s songs. Walda also had stuffed his saddle bags with delicious sausages and hams – something the songs had never mentioned. Jon smiled at Arya’s inevitable comment – “songs are stupid!”. His little sister was right!  
He received a special gift from Lord Walder – Walda’s weight in silver Stags. But Jon promised himself to kill the old goat at first opportunity anyway. As well as any Frey to be named Arya’s intended. He turned in his saddle and blew a kiss to Fat Walda Snow giving him a teary smile and a wave from the battlements. Jon felt warmth looking at her. He was missing her beautiful, soft, warm body, the delightful sounds she made in bed, her soft smile and gentle eyes already! And Gods – could she cook!


	2. 5 years later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set c. 302AC, after all the requisite wars. Everybody lives. Part of the bridge crossing deal was Arya to marry a Frey "a year and a day" from her flowering, remember? Jon's parentage remains unknown.

Arya woke up to a wet, sticky and smelly bed. And her tummy hurt.

"Shit! Fuck!"

She had flowered.

Arya knew what will happen now. Mother clucking on how she is now a woman grown with a side dish of Duty. And either avoiding her or getting clingy, she was not sure which was worse. Robb will look grim, talk of Duty and Honour ( _the rotter!_ ) and get drunk. And avoid her. Bran will just look sad. Rickon was still too young to be enlightened on female fertility related issues so he would only be informed that a Good Thing had happened to her and that "Arya will be leaving us in a year's time". Wincing from a cramp she thanked the Old Gods that she _did_ have family which actually cared.

Over a year ago he had told her that he had arranged everything for her "when the time comes". Arya believed him. Also she had nobody else left to trust. And she was SO NOT marrying some Frey ratboy ...

Arya waited for appropriate weather. When a drizzle descended on Winterfell she claimed exhaustion ( _yay for flowering!_ ) and went to bed early. And then slipped out from the castle mingling with the last batch of smallfolk leaving the grounds before the closing of the gates for the night. She headed for Wintertown. Being well aquainted with the town Arya knew where to go and knocked at the back entrance of a newly established merchant. Once a servant came to the door she demanded to see the owner.

The man – whom she knew to be Waldorf - looked to be in his mid twenties. Arya was fairly sure that she had seen him before. He bade the teenage servant to leave – and who left with a knowing smile on her lips and visibly on the verge of a giggle ( _silly snot! Is sheathing swords all she thinks about!?_ ) - and looked at Arya expectantly. She bade him stoop to her level ( _why the fuck was she so short!_ ) and hissed into his ear:

"Horseface."

After a moment the man gave an equally whispered reply:

"Bastard."

"Is the lady leaving now or in the morn?"- he whispered again.

She nodded. "Before dawn."

The man ( _not bad looking_ ) took her arm and led her inside the house. A few moments later, in a locked, well kept although evidently unused room the merchant bent the knee – apparently making up for his lack of courtesies when in front of the serving girl - and whispered:

"My Lady. Everything is prepared and ready. All was bought a year ago and has been waiting. Clothing, horses and all. Even the shears. His lordship was generous."

She examined the traveller's supplies – fireboxes, flints, whet stones, etc. The boys' clothes came in a broad selection of sizes – _bless his heart_. Bow, with spare drawstrings, arrows. Even a hauberk with coif...

Arya rode out in the drizzle hanging in the air before dawn. She had two horses, both saddled and with provisions – _we buys them fresh every week, Waldorf had said_ – split equally between the two. The horses were of reasonable quality and – if she switched her mounts – no pursuit party from Winterfell could catch her ( _eat my dust!_ ). Before setting out east, towards the Kingsroad, she warged to check where Nymeria was. The wolf was coming.

Two weeks later

"Jon!"

"Arya"

Led to one another by their wolves the two embraced. After the first hugs and kisses Jon drew away to examine his little sister – thin and worn by the trek but nonetheless none the worse for wear. He ruffled her short bucket-cut hair.

"Waldorf came through, I see."

Arya smiled.

"Yes. He even offered to set something on fire as a diversion. He said that you had saved his life so many times during the war that he'd cut his balls off to make you happy!".

"You left the note?"

"Of course, stupid!"

"So what now?".

"I will keep on sending ravens to Winterfell saying that search parties had not found any trace of you - neither dead nor alive. You will live in a hunting lodge in the most remote part of my estate for now. Sadly too many of my staff know you from Winterfell and - loyal to me or not – there are too many to keep a secret. In a few weeks, when things cool down, we will meet again and decide what to do further."

"How many know?"

"Only me and Walda. I had to tell her. She still half expects me to present her with a Snow at any moment, so my trips to the lodge would only make her see what she wishes to see. You know what the place she grew up at was like. I have no intention to torment her."

Arya nodded. Their father's refusal to speak of Jon's mother had been a bone of contention between her parents. Thus her limited experience was that the fewer secrets between spouses the better. And Walda was nice enough. As the fat girl made Jon happy this made her at the very least tolerable in Arya's eyes, Frey or not. Plus the cookies she baked were to kill for.

The two rode towards the lodge making idle chatter. At some point Arya said that Waldorf had been easy on the eyes, had so far proved honourable enough, so if a man like him was on offer she might be open to _considering_ marriage. This made Jon chortle. And after a moment Jon was simply braying in laughter. He kept on looking at Arya and trying to compose himself but failing and bursting out in laughter again. Tears ran down his cheeks as he looked at his sister.

"What? What?" Arya kept asking and hitting his arm.

After regaining capacity for speech Jon rasped out:

"Waldorf Rivers is old Walder's grandson ..."

 


End file.
